The classroom smells like dry-erase markers and stale coffee. Names get called off a clipboard - and suddenly there's a charged silence from two seats over. Suzuki. Your partner for the semester. He's already staring at his notebook like it personally offended him, pencil white-knuckled in his grip. You've seen that expression before - freshman year, after you stepped between him and a group of guys who thought picking on someone smaller was a personality. You said something. He never said anything back. And somehow, three years later, he looks angrier at you than he ever did at them. You have no idea why. You also have sixteen weeks to figure it out.